


Gotham

by Messier_47



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Food Issues, Identity Reveal, M/M, Meet-Cute, On Hiatus, Secret Identity, Self-Flagellation, What else is new, excessive use of poetic wording, it's really short and i give a heads up in the chapter, no beta we die like gods, not so cute, possible future smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messier_47/pseuds/Messier_47
Summary: Clark hated Gotham.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 28
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

He’s seven years old at the local diner in Smallville playing on one of the arcade games when a big bellied man on a motorcycle rumbles into town. His helmet, sunglasses, and long thick beard cover most of his face but there’s nothing to disguise that certain curl of his lip as he sat down at the front booth and ordered a coffee.

“So where you hail, stranger?” asked Ms. Debra-call-me-Debra making nice. That curl on his mouth, a Gothamite sneer he would later learn, turned wide. For once, Clark was scared about some other power than himself and his Ma’s wrath. The man looked like he was about to sprout fangs and go for Ms. Debra’s jugular.

“Gotham,” he said, with a voice like homegrown tobacco and a swamp land, spitting out his hometown like a curse. Ms. Debra made quick his coffee, dodging out of sight as the man laughed in hysterics. At seven, Clark didn’t know what everyone else seemed to know and that made him more afraid.

They tell him much later when he worked up the courage to ask.  _ ‘Gotham’s a city,’  _ they said. He takes bits and pieces of his Pa’s newspaper, seeking with an intensity that worried his Ma and Pa.

_ ‘Nothing good comes out of that city, _ ’ they said.

That wasn’t true. With the bits and pieces Clark could collect, he knew that there was some good in Gotham and they go by the name of Wayne.

‘ _ THOMAS WAYNE DONATES TO GOTHAM’S CHILDREN HOSPITAL’ _

_ ‘WAYNE ENTERPRISES INVESTING IN CITYWIDE TRANSPORTATION’ _

_ ‘WAYNE ENTERPRISE EMPLOYING THOUSANDS OF LOCAL CITIZENS’ _

And then the day came where even the light of Wayne was snuffed out.

_ ‘WAYNE DOUBLE MURDER’ _

It made national news. The article Clark grabbed stated that Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered in the back alley of an opera house. Joe Chills, the suspect with possible ties to the existing crime syndicate, did it for a wallet and a necklace. The photo that graced the front page wasn’t of the blood soaked alley, or the spilled pearls in the gutter.

The front page photo was of Bruce Wayne, the only son and heir to the Wayne family company and prestige. In any other photo, a newly minted orphan would be a slobbery mess of tears, snot, and grief. Not Bruce. Not the boy from Gotham.

Wayne was staring directly at the camera, eyes sharp and focused on the viewer. It was as if the boy knew what the world thought, what they saw while looking upon his tragedy, judging them for their nondiscrimination, their lust for misery, and inrestraint towards being a witness and he was saying,  _ ‘I see you.’ _

For the next month the photo was sensationalized before Wayne Enterprises bought the rights to it.

Clark, though tempted to ripped the photo in the newspaper to shreds, never seemed to gain the courage to destroy the evidence of Hell on Earth.

He learned to hate Gotham.


	2. Chapter 2

Clark visited the city only once before everything started. This was before he would find a job at  _ The Daily Planet _ and before the Batman ever took to the shadows.

He’s a young man just passing through, with all his possessions over his shoulder and a Smallville smile.

He learned real quick to get in a motel and stay there before the sun set.

The city was writhing. He might not be Lovecraft but even he could see the beast Gotham was. In the daylight, the stone walls lay cold and heartless. The old buildings rise like the eternal corpses of long forgotten titans. The people here were of a different breed. They were like the gargoyles Clark had seen on every street corner. Their mouth having that certain Gothamite curl, ready to snarl at a moments notice.

Gotham in the light was dead compared to the city at night. Clark had went for a walk wearing a hoodie that have seen better days (didn't want to look like he had anything worth stealing) and didn’t get past the block before realizing that this place was a different sort of monster.

The city was screaming and no one was listening. He witnessed a woman attacked by her John, his natural instinct was to reach out and help, but no prostitute from Gotham was ever truly helpless, her nails viciously tearing open the flesh of her attacker’s arms. Heroin addicts ran through the streets like hell hounds were after them. He tried to stick to the shadows but it was clear real fast that Gothamites used the shadows much more efficiently than outsiders, the feeling of eyes in the dark watching his every step prevailing past the heartless chill in the air.

There was a woman walking home from work. From her car to her apartment building was thirty feet and even then the streetlight did not help to dissuade the thugs moving in to surround her. Clark’s hearing helped fill out the rest. They weren't there because they forgot the key.

It was easy to take them down (couple rips into his hoodie but no harm done, it was already ugly) and Clark wanted to call the cops. He turned to the woman to see her glaring at him.  _ Him! _ As if he were the thug.

“You ain't getting nothing from me for that,” she hissed.

“I don't want anything, Ma’am.” His accent must have betrayed him because her wary glare turned into a disgusted sneer.

“Not from here?” she asked but she wasn’t really asking. Clark might was well be wearing a neon blinking sign that said, ‘ _ NOT FROM GOTHAM, _ ’ “Get out before something happens.”

“What would that something be?” he asked because that sounded like a threat.

“We like to play with our food before eating it,” she said before the tenant door slammed behind her, leaving Clark alone with four unconscious thugs under a flickering street lamp. She didn't have to explain who  _ ‘We _ ’ were for him to know. Gothamites. Gotham. The City of a Million Tragedies.

Here be dragons of Old Testament, shadows of black magic. Where the rat ate the cat who ate the dog who ate the body on tenth street, murdered by a neighbor for a beer. If there be angels they don’t shine anymore. They probably smoke cigarettes in orgy piles, lamenting the days where they still felt clean.

People stalk the night like predators out on the hunt. By daylight those same predators turn into anyone: the grocer, the babysitter, a lawyer, a mom. The hospitals get overworked and without the Wayne heir donating large sums of money every now and then, they’d be Code Black always. There's too many criminals, not enough policemen. And then there's not enough real policemen among the police.

Gotham was a city infected. Rotting from the inside out. It needed a hero and when Superman came knocking, well it quite literally slammed a door in his face.

By morning, Clark was gone.

Someone had stolen his wallet. 


	3. Chapter 3

‘ _ GOTHAM BAT: REAL OR FAKE?’ _

If the news title hadn’t graced the pages of the  _ Gotham Gazette _ , Clark Kent wouldn’t have bothered but Thursday evening had Lois scoffing in her seat with a copy in front of her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Didn’t know the  _ Gazette _ had fallen enough to retell madmen’s deliriums,” she scathingly said, “Listen to this, ‘ _ Due to Monday’s display in front of GCPD precinct one could only help but to believe the inevitable; Gotham City might now has its own vigilante _ .’ What utter bullshit.” She tossed the newspaper in disgust on Clark’s desk and he couldn’t help but recoil from the offending object.

“That wasn’t a display, that was violence trying to pass off as heroism. This ‘Batman’ or whatever he’s trying to sell himself as is just another criminal, beating up other criminals and trying to cash in some self entitlement. Sure, those seven men deserved to go straight back to jail but did three of them deserve months of extensive medical care?”

“Come on Lane,” Jimmy Olsen, Daily Planet photographer, complained, “It’s not like they asked for the attention. They didn’t even give themselves a monicar. No name. No call card. Maybe they just don’t want every journalist in their pants. Sorry Lane, you gotta face the facts. The Gotham Bat doesn’t have the hots for you.”

“I have an Excalibur Award and I am not afraid to bash you in the head with it,” Lois threatened.

“Yep, and that award might be super sexy to anyone else within a thousand mile radius but face the facts, the Bat is gonna play hard to get until our Superman begs on his hands and knees for proof that there is a devil. Gotta say, I like their style. I mean, have you seen what the Bat has given GCPD? The police call them batarangs, which is a really stupid name, but holy shit I was totally into ninjas as a kid and those things make me feel like I’m jerking off for the first time in my bedroom with Kate Winslet-”

“Jimmy. Shut up,” Lois sharply turned away from the photographer and frowned when she saw Clark avoiding the  _ Gazette _ on his desk like it was plagued. “Oh, sorry Smallville, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” asked Jimmy. Lois grabbed the  _ Gazette _ from off Kent’s desk and brushed off the imaginary germs.

“Kent here is allergic to all things Gotham,” Lane told with expiration.

“I do not,” Clark tried to defend himself, “I’m just … very adverse to how journalism is run in that city.”

“And can’t step foot within the city limits without breaking into hives,” Lois teased.

“What you got against the  _ Gazette _ ?” Jimmy asked. Clark could only sigh. He told this off-handedly to Lois a while ago and thought she would simply forget the weird little quirk but it would seem he’s not so lucky.

“It’s not the  _ Gazette _ ,” Clark tried to explain, “It’s … everything. Remember the Wayne tragedy?”

There was a rare look of solemnity on Jimmy’s face when he said, “Who wouldn’t remember? The Wayne tragedy was one of the most talked about news story in that past decade. My kindergarten teacher cried that day.”

“Do you remember that photo? The one that shocked the world or whatever they were calling it?” Olsen’s face lit up in memory.

“Oh man do I. I would sell my left testicle to get a photo as good as that. Sure, I take good Superman photos but Bruce Wayne in that … dear Lord, my college professor nearly orgasmed in class when he brought that up.”

“TMI Jimmy. TMI,” Lois interrupted.

“Oh yeah, anyways how does that photo make you allergic to Gotham?” Jimmy asked Clark.

“It’s the insensitivity of it. Here’s this little boy who just witnessed the death of both his parents and the photographer had to capture it and be praised for it. As if documenting the lowest point in a young boy’s life is somehow commendable.”

“Well,” Jimmy said with his arms crossing defensively, “That’s photographers for ya. Capturing the shit no one else wants to see and stuffing it back at people’s faces.”

“Jimmy,” Clark says apologetically, “I don’t mean to say you-”

“No, I get it man,” Jimmy said, “Photographers are despicable people with no consciousness. I already know that. But what you got against Gotham? Sounds to me like you got an agenda against journalism. Is this some sort of confession that you were planning to destroy the  _ Planet _ like a terrorist raving about discretion or something?”

“No, Jimmy. It’s in the photo.” Clark remembered the photo that’s been seared into his brain. The black and white picture, Bruce Wayne off a little to the right with some unnamed cop kneeling at his feet. Wayne staring into the camera, hyper focused. With just a little imagination, Clark could see the trademark Gotham sneer at the boy’s lip, teeth ready to be bared and threaten the world. ‘ _ Look at what I’ve become, _ ’ little Bruce Wayne says in his head, ‘ _ This is Gotham. _ ’

“What do you see in the photo?” Jimmy asked, ever the cameraman.

“It’s like you’re witnessing Gotham at it’s finest,” Clark confessed, “Tragedy reshaping an innocent boy into something else.”

“Now you’re just imagining things,” Jimmy scoffed, “Does Perry pay you more for poetry?”

“You gotta admit, Smallville’s got a way with words,” Lois piping in.

“And you gotta admit that Gotham City has a way of convincing you that the rabid dog doesn’t need to be put down, it needs your flesh for food,” Clark spat because they were teasing him, he knows but he doesn’t like it, “That city is a disease and that photo, the one with Bruce Wayne looking you in the eye, is evidence of the first stage of Gotham madness.” Both Lois and Jimmy shut themselves up and stared at him with concern bleeding into their eyes.

Clark took a deep breath heavily, rubbed his eyes cause there’s a migraine growing behind there, and put his head down on his desk.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Well, that was rather passionate of you,” Jimmy said, surprise coloring his words, “Got any other shocking revelations to give?”

“I’m surprised how deep this aversion runs Clark. What if we have a story we need to follow there?” Lois asked.

“Then I put on my big boy pants and make do. Seriously, I’m sorry for exploding on you guys.”

“Apology accepted, Kansas,” Lois easily said, “When did this all start anyways?”

“We got a saying in Smallville,” Clark said, “‘ _ Nothing good grows out of that city’.” _

“Man, I’m surprised to hear that even Smallville has any outside news,” Jimmy said.

“Well, you know how it goes,” Clark decided to lighten the mood with a bit of teasing, “You city slickers don’t got no sense out in the real world.”

“And no country bumpkin got any sense in this one,” Lois said back with a smile.

“But then again,” Jimmy said, thinking real careful about his next words, “All the wisdom in the world can’t protect you from Gotham.”

“Aw.”

Jimmy yelped in surprise and both Kent and Lane sat up in their desk. “You kids telling bedtime stories?”

“No sir,” Jimmy tried to reassure Mr. Perry White, their boss, “We were just-”

“Wasting time! Don’t you have some politician to cover? Lane! Where’s that last article you promised me?! Clark! What are you doing?!”

“I’m covering-”

“Don’t care anymore. I want both those articles turned in by tomorrow morning for Monday’s paper, now move it!”

The whole conversation was forgotten.

Clark never took a lead down in Gotham.


	4. Chapter 4

Metropolis was the supreme antithesis of Gotham.

Where Gotham was of darkness, Metropolis was of light. The buildings rose in the air like the great pyramids of old Egypt trying to reach the stars. It shone like a polished gem all smooth lines, clean windows, and light in every dark corner. Not to say that Metropolis didn’t have the muck of criminal activity within its city perimeters but even the hardest of villains thought twice about stealing candy from a baby. Especially when it became known that Metropolis was the makeshift temple of a living, breathing god.

Clark hated it when people called him that. A god. As if he were untouchable, unbreakable, undeathable. It sometimes had its uses but how Clark wanted to nash his teeth at the thought of ever needing that particular ruse. Most of the time however, it was so subconscious that Superman couldn’t fight back against it.

People started cleaning their windows. They started treating people kinder. Faith seems to spark at the edge of his every fingertips and after every big rescue, a hundred more people flock to their churches, temples, synagogues in need for a little bit of hope.

The streets were cleaned more. Litter was more punishable. Citizens jumped on the Save-the-Planet showbiz in unprecedented numbers. Superman was used to serving as a spot of hope for not only a single city but for the world. What he wasn’t used to being the reason people had to bettering themselves.

‘ _ We’re live at Garther River where hundreds of both local citizens and travelers from all across the country come to clean up a most dire situation. For the last two years, this river that served as the local water supply to nearby crops has slowly been polluted by litter coming from the highway. Here we have local farmer, Hanson Douglas, to tell us more. _

_ ‘Hanson, how polluted is this river?’ _

_ ‘Well, Ma’am, this on here river’s been so choked with this and that and stuff we farmer’s been tryin’a clean ourselves but it takes an army.’ _

_ ‘Well now it looks like you’ve got your army! Can you tell us where this all started?’ _

_ ‘Hm, there was a sign out by the highway sayin’ Superman be ashame of litterin’ and my granddaughter Sissy got on her fancy phone, tweeting something and now here we are with a whole bunch of goodwill strangers wanting to clean the river.’ _

_ ‘And why do you think they’ve all come down when before there was nothing being done about the pollution in the water?’ _

_ ‘Ma’am, I’m a Christian man who don’t believe in no god in blue and red underwear but by my reckoning, Superman inspires the little bit in everyone wanting to help a cause in need.’ _

_ ‘Thank you sir and there you have it live from Garther River, this is Johana Doe, back to you.’ _

It felt good. It was a bit confusing at first but it was good. It was as if with the presence of the sun, people were willing to grow. Metropolis shined brighter and brighter each and every day until  _ Time Magazine _ came out with a new poll ranking Metropolis as one of the happiest cities to live.

In reflection, Gotham just got darker.

In everyone’s head, the Bat was the flesh and blood boogieman. There was no proof of his existence outside the morning delivery of criminals caught red handed in whatever illegality worth pursuing. The Gotham underground was damn near vomiting it’s black rotten guts out in the alleyways. More and more criminals tried to hide in their little hidey holes but the Bat dragged them out into the light, made them confess their sins with a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

Once, Superman flew through Gotham trying to search for the elusive Bat. Not only did he not catch a glimpse of the mysterious caper but Gotham nearly rioted at the suggestion of his presence.

The next morning Lois was pointedly reading the  _ Gotham Gazette _ . On the front page was a large colored picture of a brick wall defaced with red graffiti reading, ‘ _ STAY OUT OF OUR CITY HERO.’ _ There was nearly ten thousand dollars in damages, a hospital full of innocent people nursing wounds from stray bullets, and not a whisper of where the Bat was in the midst of chaos.

“Why are they so hypocritical, Lois?” Clark couldn’t help but ask later, “They accepted the Bat with open arms but when Superman takes a quick stroll they want to revolt.”

“People like that,” she said, “People born and bred in the evil of Gotham, they don’t want a hero. At least a hero like Superman.”

“Are you saying Superman is lacking something?”

“Clark, in a city like Gotham, no one’s hands are clean. When a spotlight is put on it … well let’s just say graffiting the precinct was the least they could do.”

“So what? They have Batman and no one is screaming for a witch hunt.”

“Who ever said Batman was a hero to Gotham?” she asked and that shut him up. She was right. Who claimed the Bat to be a hero? Who thought the Bat could be the call to greatness Gotham so desperately needed? No one in Gotham did. And if there was anything Clark has ever learned about Gotham, it was that the people in it ran by a set of rules no one else outside was privy to.

Proof was in the paper.

“Are you suggesting that the Bat might be some sort of villain?”

“There’s no such thing as villains in Gotham, Smallville,” Lane sighed, “There’s only thieves, murderers, oppressors, and infidels. Where’s Jimmy?”

“And which one is the Batman?” Clark asked now curious.

“The devil, didn’t you know? Where the hell is Jimmy when you need him? Chloe, you know where Jimmy is?”

A woman passing by just briefly stopped to give an answer, “Oh yeah, you weren’t here this morning huh?”

“Stuck in traffic and listening to the Metro podcast, stop making small talk and answer me.”

“Jimmy’s off with Cat Grant over in Gotham.” Something in Clark’s gut sank and twisted as if he swallowed a kryptonite pebble.

“What?”

“Cat’s there for the circus story.”

“What circus story?” asked Clark. His blood was draining fast with dread and never had he felt so dizzy before without his weakness so plain in sight.

“Where were you guys in the past twenty four hours? Haley’s Circus in Gotham had a tragedy happen last night. Two aerial artists fell to their deaths. Some say it was an accident but every Gotham paper is pointing to murder.”

“For sensationalism?” Lane asked, a little weary of the topic.

“Well,” Chloe said, a little uncomfortable with the subject as well, “You know that old spooky thing that Gotham papers do. When they all point at a direction, they all turn out to be right.”

“That sounds like suggestive psychology,” Lane tried to rebuke.

“Sure it does,” Chloe admitted, “but it’s not like they were ever wrong before.”

“So Perry sent Cat, our gossiper, to a murder scene? That doesn’t add up,” Clark said.

“It doesn’t until you hear how the two aerial artists were husband and wife and they had a son. Oh, and the son is still alive, watched his parents fall, and is now being held in the custody of one Prince of Gotham, the dazzling billionaire Bruce Wayne!” It was like Clark’s life flashed before his eyes but his memories had one single focus. He remembered every single article he ever read about the Wayne Double Murder, a little boy trying to solve the case a thousand mile away. Words kept on boiling up. He could practically see the blood staining the alleyway, or is it the circus floor? Does silk lay like pearls on the ground?

In all of this Clark couldn’t help but think of little Bruce in that black and white photograph, staring into his very soul. In a moment of insanity, Bruce smiles with blood in his teeth and saying,  _ ‘Stay out of Gotham, Hero.’ _

“Clark? Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

So what if he used a little superspeed to get to the restrooms? There’s a ghost of a little boy in his head laughing at his naivety.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a short mentioning of James "Jimmy" Olsen using food as a self-flagellation of guilt.
> 
> This is your warning.

‘ _ BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE ADOPTS WARD’  _ graced the front page of the Daily Planet the next day. Clark dared not touch a single copy. He walked into the bullpen early that morning to Jimmy sitting at his desk, head in his hands, two empty coffee cups at his side and a knee jittering from caffeine. Clark takes one look at him before offering his own coffee cup. Jimmy took and downed it in one swallow.

“So,” Clark said, “What is a three-coffee-cup problem in the world of James Olsen?”

“Don’t call me James,” Jimmy mumbled before tossing a glossy photo onto Clark’s desk. It was the original photo from the front page news. He hadn’t truly looked at it but now that he has, he wanted his coffee back. It was way too early in the morning to be dealing with this.

Clark was very familiar with the visage of Bruce Wayne. Everyone in the nation was familiar with him. Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist with a particular skill in throwing great parties. He gave away money like it was his job. His company earned more profit than LexCorp (with the great leadership of one Lucius Fox). A once Gothamite boy who stared into the eyes of the world and forced it to flinch back was now a fluttering socialite, dancing from party to party with a new girl or boy of his fancy on each arm. In the past, Clark had searched through Wayne’s paparazzi photos from his adulthood for the Gothamite Sneer™ and had come up empty. It would seem that Gotham could either make or break a person and Bruce Wayne broke.

No one could blame him.

But here it was in glossy black and white, a photo taken from the closed gates of the Wayne manor. Jimmy’s camera was much better than anyone else’s because his was a personal Frankenstein of camera parts mashed together to create the best possible photos. He captured a rather rare thing. Bruce Wayne leading his new ward, a Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson, up the steps of the manor with a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy’s face was turned away, his black hair camouflaging with the black coat on his shoulders trying to disguise the defeated slump in his shoulders. But the main focus wasn’t the boy. The main focus was Bruce.

The man’s hand might have been gentle on the boy, but his body was half turned towards the audience. His entire face was in full view of the camera and somehow, someway, Bruce was staring directly into the lense. How could he pinpoint the one lense needed to make such a powerful photo, Clark could never say but the picture nearly stopped his heart in fright. Bruce’s bright eyes stared directly at him.

But instead of his eyes demanding for his audience to swallow his tragedy as terrifying as it was, his eyes now seemed to scream, ‘ _ STAY OUT. _ ’ And it made sense because there was no one to protect Bruce Wayne from the trauma that came with the media storm that was his parent’s murder. So now that there was another orphan and another ‘accident’ of course Bruce Wayne would step in.

There was a certain curl to his lip and Clark knew how to read it.

‘ _ This is Gotham,’ _ that sneer always said, ‘ _ Stay back _ .’

“I’m gonna give it to Wayne Enterprise,” Jimmy moaned into his hands. Clark flinched in surprise because he forgot where he was for a moment.

“You’re not gonna sell it?” he asked, “Not gonna wait till they make an offer?”

“I’m gonna give it back before they even make an offer,” Jimmy said, “I didn’t know. I didn’t even know what I had until this morning. ‘ _ Photo taken by James ‘Jimmy’ Olsen’ _ said the papers and I was like, ‘ _ What? I didn’t do that.’ _ I’ve been congratulated six times for taking the shot and I can’t stand to even look at it.”

“Jimmy,” Clark tried for some sympathy, “You’re making it worse than what it really is.”

“I get it now,” he said, “I get why you seem to hate Gotham. I didn’t realize it until now. All over the country people are sending me emails saying, ‘ _ What a great shot _ ’ and all I can think about is that little boy with his father’s coat over his shoulders. And you know what? We went over there and were taking photos of outside the circus and the manor and you wanna know where everyone else was at? They were already hunting for the culprit. They were digging for shit so well hidden the air stank with it. It was like the tragedy of a child wasn’t even newsworthy anymore but the hunt for a criminal was. The world is congratulating me on taking a photo and not one Gotham paper has even acknowledged what I did. As if I’m not even worth commenting on. They’re gonna go on CNN and they’ll ask,  _ ‘What do you think about that Olsen picture.’  _ and Gotham will say,  _ ‘He didn’t capture anything extraordinary.’ _ ”

“Jimmy,” Clark said with a little more firmness to his voice, “I think you need the day off. You should talk to Perry.”

Jimmy gave a humorless laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Cause Cat is still talking with him. You should have seen her this morning, talking a mile a minute, laughing and smiling like it was all some big joke. As if this my photo saved the world. I just immortalized the tragedy of another orphan from Gotham and it was when I see the guardian clearly looking at me and saying, ‘ _ No _ ’ and still the photo gets out there. There’s so much guilt now and … oh … I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Clark grabbed a wastebasket and shoved it between Jimmy’s knees as he dry heaved. He rubbed soothing circles on the young man’s back, casually apply pressure to the pressure points he knows about to help relax him.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” Clark said when Jimmy got a moment to breath, “You’re gonna mail this photo to whoever you want to mail it to: Wayne Enterprise or Bruce Wayne, you decide. Then you’re gonna walk into Mr. Perry’s office and request some leave. Also, you’re gonna lay off the coffee because caffeine is not helping you in anyway right now.”

“Thanks Clark,” Jimmy said when his stomach calmed down enough.

Later, Clark would grab a copy of the Daily Planet, meticulously carve and laminate the photo, then stuff it under his mattress.

‘ _ A reminder _ ,’ he thought. A reminder of what, he couldn’t tell you.

Jimmy would mail the photo and its negatives to the Wayne Manor. He would receive a letter of professional gratefulness, a promise of compensation if warranted, and a box of chocolates from a very expensive Swiss company. Bruce Wayne might have wanted to play off the self-flagellation apology Jimmy had sent with his complimentary gift but Clark knows how Jimmy grabbed that ‘ _ gift _ ’ and went to the restroom stuffing the chocolates down his throat to immediately vomit later, crying into the porcelain for forgiveness.

Jimmy would later take two weeks off of work, seeking a professional counselor for the guilt that choked his throat.

Months later, he would turn down the invitation to attend the award ceremony for ‘ _ Picture of the Year _ ’. They would send the award in first class mail.

Jimmy will return to counseling for a time. The award would never be spoke of in  _ The Daily Planet _ .


	6. Chapter 6

When one of Superman’s leads, a Mr. Terry Goodwill, runs straight into Gotham after funneling a sort of bastardized Joker gas diluted one percent to give the user a heady rush of laughter and inhibited thoughts and actions, Superman nearly cries. He didn’t want to go into Gotham. He never wanted to go into Gotham. It made him want to throw a tantrum like a child how much he didn’t want to go into that city.

But Terry needed to face justice. Joker gas was extremely addictive even at the one percent dilution. If a user took too many hits they would soon have a heart attack with a glasgow smile on their face. Terry was head of operations in Metropolis but Superman knew he wasn’t the boss. No, Terry was just a stupid thug wanting to make a profit, selling in a city no other hard drug dealer would dare step foot in. And when Superman came for him as inevitably he would, Terry ran back to the city of monsters, hoping the shadows would hide him once more.

Superman would not allow him to get away.

He followed after Terry in secret, trying his very best to not be seen by anyone to pass his presence unnoticed by the city. If the city knew he was there, he desperately hoped it wouldn’t swallow him whole.

Superman decided that Terry was an idiot among idiots because after an hour of him hiding out in his girlfriend’s living room he left and made his way to a supposedly abandoned warehouse on the dock of Gotham bay. The shadows move a little differently here as if the laws of science have no rule over this dimension. Superman kept to his corner and watched as dutifully as he could, growling in complaint when his x-ray vision barely worked because of all the lead in the buildings and shipping containments.

He thinks he hears a toxic voice laughing, biting scoffs and the slick slide of tongue. In Gotham anything was possible and Clark couldn’t help but imagine a hyena with the mouth of a venomous snake and fire ants crawling all over its fur waiting for a new victim to burn.

“He’s here!” screams a thug from within the warehouse and guns go off like the fourth of July at a backcountry family get together. Superman flies in but freezes because there’s someone here he hadn’t counted on seeing.

Someone made of more myth than he.

The Bat had taken out the lights but that didn’t stop Superman from seeing him efficiently taking out thugs, a nightmare given form and flesh. Batman (it was pretty clear the Bat was a man now) fought like a demon in chains. His moves savage but without waste. Breaking bones as easily as holding someone’s hand. Lashing out kicks like the most complex of dances. His hits as devastating as a lover’s kiss. And he manages to kill no one.

Too quickly does the fighting stop and now there’s only Batman and Joker. It’s Superman’s first time witnessing Gotham’s offered villains and he grimaced. Gothamite villains were much worse than he guessed.

Terry knelt at Joker’s feet, a gun in his mouth held by the madman. The growing puddle at his feet and the offensive smell of urine made Superman a little sympathetic to the young man’s fear, especially at such a disadvantage against Gotham’s most feared. Whether that honor is given to the Clown Prince of Crime or Gotham’s Dark Knight, no one could say for sure.

“I wonder,” the Joker said, words slurring in his mouth, salivating at the scent of fear. “Can you save him before I pull the trigger?”

“NO!” Superman screamed.

Joker had already fired. Terry falls dead with his brains splattered across the warehouse floor. Before he could even register what he’s doing, Superman already has the Joker’s throat in his unforgiving fist, holding him against a metal shipment thirty feet in the air.

The Joker cackles.

“What’s a hero like you doing in Gotham?” Joker asked and Clark’s worst nightmare comes into play when the Gothamite Sneer™ turns more gruesome, horrific, mutated with crazy and for the first time in his life, Superman believed in evil.

“Superman,” the Bat said and something in Superman shuddered. His rage, a newborn monster who suckled on the toxic fumes of the city, turns into nothing and he turns an ear towards the vigilante.

“Oh ho,” the Joker chokes out, “What a momentous occasion. Batsy and the Superman, face to face for the first time! I’m privileged to bring you two together and-”

“Lower him down,” Batman ordered and Superman couldn’t help but do so. Joker is still giggling when their feet hit concrete. Gotham’s chosen hero, it’s Dark Knight, is suddenly at his back and Superman grows stiff at the proximity. It feels too much like a predator is behind him. Unprompted, he released the Joker and stepped away. Stepped very far away.

“Now that’s interesting,” the Joker muses, “To think Superman listens to-”

Batman is quick to punch him straight on. Superman could hear his nose shattering, blood vessels bursting. He flinched at the sound and stands in shock to see the Bat doing his work.

If Metropolis were the antithesis of Gotham, Superman was the complete opposite of Batman.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Batman says. “You’re gonna give me Scarecrow’s location. But only after I break a rib.”

“Well this is surprising,” the Joker said, snapping his nose back together, “Are you excited? This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“You can say that.” And with that Batman beats the Joker. The Joker isn’t a skilled fighter, though he does have a skill in evasion and hidden knives on his person that Superman wasn’t even aware of but he was nothing against the martial arts expert Batman must be.

Batman beats the Joker. Bloodies him. Breaks bones. It’s vicious. It’s ugly. It’s completely savage, completely expected out of Gotham’s underbelly and still Superman has no clue why his hand reaches out.

“That’s enough,” his mouth says without his brain’s permission. What the fuck mouth? Shut the fuck up.

The Joker drops to the floor heaving out gasps. Batman turns to him and Clark wants the floor to swallow him whole. There’s nary a single expression on Batman’s face but some reason that send ice crawling into his bones faster than the Gothamite Sneer™ was ever able to.

“HaHaHa,” The Joker laughs spitting out blood, “What are you doing, hero?”

What is he doing?  _ What is he doing? _ He didn’t know. For a second, the persona of Superman broke and Clark Kent stared down at the bloody madman, holding back the punishing fist of Gotham’s darling enforcer of justice. There’s someone dead at his back and this isn’t his city. He can’t protect anyone here.

“You think can save me, hero?” Joker mused and it’s such a slap to the face. Here they mock him. He can shoot lasers out of his eyes, lift this entire city in the air, his breath can start the next ice age, spin time in reverse and yet  _ they mock him _ .

Gotham mocks him because Gotham needs no hero. There’s no one here to save.

“Superman,” Batman said and his voice, like the thunderous growl of a tiger, broke him out of his mild panic. “Let go.”

“Yeah, Superman,” the Joker adds on, “Let go, listen to Batsy and flee. Fly back to your shining city. What use are your heroics here in a city where we don’t believe in heroes anymore? We’ll eat you alive, Superman. We’ll feast on the very heart of you. Won’t we Bats? We’ll tear you apart. Feed the hungry from your meat. Toss your bones to the dogs. Fuck your guts and have Gotham babies drink your blood. What are you doing here, hero?

_ What the hell are you doing here? _ ”

Disturbed, Superman released Batman’s arm and the Bat immediately stomped a hard boot straight into the Joker’s rib. Superman didn’t flinch this time to hear bones breaking. He had to swallow the bile back when he heard Joker still laughing.

“Bird-brain’s down at the Museum. In the sewers like the piece of shit he is,” Joker gave away easily. As if that whole interrogation was a farce, a play, a dance with no music. Batman immediately turned away to make his way out of there.

“Robin,” Batman said through his communicator that Superman’s never seen. There’s a lot of details he’s missing out on. His world falling out beneath his feet and he’s near dizzy with the otherness that is being so close to the reality that is Gotham’s black heart. “Museum’s sewer system. Flush them out.”

“Oh? Are you embarrassed of me, Batsy?” The Joker choked out with a throat full of blood, a broken nose and rib, “Won’t let me meet your little sidekick?”

“Gordon,” Batman said and Superman recognised the name of Gotham Commissioner James Gordon, “Vallor Warehouse at the docks. Seven men down, one dead. Joker out of commission.”

“You see what we are Superman?” the Joker said, addressing him and though he doesn’t look back, he heard, “Cold, cruel, one bad day from murder. You’re here for the dead guy over there see, and he’s dead. Real heroic of you, Supes. Stupid cunt like Terry would have never survived. There was no Gotham in him. Do you have Gotham in you, Supes?

_ Is there Gotham in you?” _

“Shut up.” Superman didn’t say a word. Batman said it as he knelt and stabbed a needle into Joker’s shoulder. Joker laughed as his heart slows and his eyes fall shut.

“What did you-,” is Superman’s immediate question that Batman answers.

“Knock out drug.” Batman turns to him and for once the two can focus on one another.

Batman is everything and nothing like he would expect. He is a mortal man with no powers. The shadows don’t cling to him. It’s not a curse to look upon his face. He’s a mortal man wearing military grade kevlar armor, a cape made of something he can’t name but it moves like silk and is more shadow than a moonless night. His cowl hides everything but the sharp and humorless cut of his mouth. For a brief second, Superman tries to look past the armor and is surprised to see nothing but a thin layer of lead the man had seamlessly added to his suit.

Batman knows him. Batman was prepared for him. He’s built himself into a secret not even Superman could uncover. What else does he know about Superman’s limits? Does he know about his weaknesses? What does he know?

_ Who is the Batman? _

The mystery gave away nothing of his opinions of Superman from the moment they both took weigh and measure each other. But Batman must have found him wanting because he dismissed him.  _ He. Dismissed. Him. _

As if he were some fly on the wall. Before Batman could walk away on silent feet, Clark turns and let his stupid mouth leave him.

“Hey wait!” Batman is already gone and it takes his super hearing to listen to the displacement of wind as the Bat flies off using a grappling gun. Superman follows after him because he can and also because the GCPD have just arrived and he didn’t want to explain why he was on the scene.

Batman stops moving on top of a roof and Superman is startled to see that he’s not running away. The Bat had led him away and was waiting for him. Superman’s caution amps up.

“Um…” Good going, Kent, where the hell was that smart mouth when you need it? “What the hell was that back there?”

The Bat is silent. Does he have no defense?

“You just beat a deranged man bloody, not even giving him a question before giving unorthodox interrogation practices. That was beyond cruel and-”

“Batman!” someone shouted and Superman would have jumped if he wasn’t already flying. There was suddenly a boy, a costumed little boy, scampering to Batman’s side in excitement. Unlike his mentor’s all black attire, the boy’s costume was brightly colored. The boy couldn’t have been in his teens!

“Batman!” said the boy, “Scarecrow’s down. Got some help from Eddie and the GCPD. The drugs are-”

“Robin,” Batman’s growly voice interrupted and the boy’s innan chatter silenced. Robin looked around and gasped when he saw Superman.

“I didn’t know you worked with Superman!” he exclaimed with excitement, “He’s really flying right now! Why didn’t you tell me you were friends? Was this some secret mission or something? Can we-”

“Robin,” the Bat said, “We aren’t friends.”

“Well why not? Superman is-”

“Batman,” Superman growled. Somewhere in the back of his head, there was a tiny voice that sounded a lot like Clark Kent screaming for him to get as far away from this toxic city as he can but it was drowned out by Superman who was furious. “You brought a child into this life? You’re endangering an innocent against real villains who can and will harm him? What are you thinking? How could you-”

_ “Get out _ ,” said Robin, colder than what Superman would expect from a young boy. Superman’s train of thought disintegrates. Just by body language alone, he could tell something changed in the sweet innocent boy he had just met. If Batman was the tiger in the night, Robin was the cub, learning how to hunt.

“Get out of Gotham while you still can,” the boy warns. Superman dropped down onto the roof and Robin moved to a fighting stance as gracefully as Batman would. It surprised him how lethal that little boy could show off to be.

“I’m not here to-”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Robin hissed and his mouth turned into that Gothamite Sneer™ Clark hated so much. “You shouldn’t be here, hero.”

“Robin,” he tried to calm but Robin turned his back to him, dismissive and cold. Either he learned from his mentor, or Gotham really was an infection that set in deep.

“I’m gone,” Robin told the Bat and he flipped off the ledge of the roof with the grace of an acrobat. Instinctively, Superman darted forward to catch the falling boy but Batman’s inaction stops him. Why isn’t the mentor concerned over his apprentice?

“Why are you here?” Batman asked him. Superman could hear the grappling gun going off and tried his best to trust Robin’s ability to fly. Batman’s voice, changed by both a modulator and the man’s natural deep baritone voice, made rankled Superman’s fight-or-flight instincts, hearing a challenge and a threat where there was none.

“Terry Goodwill’s been selling Joker gas on the sly,” Superman said, “Diluted, it’s not as harmful as how the Joker’s been sampling his drug. But it’s still dangerous. I’ve cleaned up what I could but then Terry went to ground. I didn’t expect what happened next.”

“I’ll look into existing Joker gas shipments in the Metropolis area and give MCPD the chemical recipe to neutralise the toxic gas and cure for any Joker grin victims. Your involvement here is done.” With the sweep of his cape Batman was about to disappear back into the shadows of his leviathan of a city.

“Hey wait,” Clark called out. For some reason, Batman stopped to listen. “You don’t have to work alone like this.”

“I don’t work alone,” the Bat said. Clark sharply thought that there's no possible way for Batman to believe Robin was not only a sidekick, but an actually partner on equal footing. He decided to disregard what the other just said and plow on.

“There are others like us. Heroes all over the world. There’s been talk of forming a Justice League to communicate between cities of criminal activity crossing borders. You can join and we’ll be able to keep in touch. You can call if you need help and-”

_ “Stay out of my city,” _ the Bat growled and Clark freezes.

“What?”

“Stay out of my city,” he repeats, “Tell that to the rest of your heroes. No one goes past my city limits. Anyone tries, I will know and you won’t like what happens next. Stay out.”

“Oh? And what happens where another Terry Goodwill goes to ground here?” Superman tried to reason. “Terry is a recognized citizen of Metropolis, you can’t serve justice to a man out of your-”

“This is my city,” the Bat threatens, “If another criminal escapes your clutches because you stupidly let them slip by, Gotham will chew them up and spit them out in a black body bag. They’re in our jurisdiction. We don’t need any other reason to feed.”

With a sinking feeling, Clark wonders exactly what he’s looking at. He thought that the Bat was Gotham’s chosen hero. A black light in a world stained with sin. He thought that the city accepted the Bat because it wasn’t an outsider trying to fix the disease, but an inside organism fighting the virus. But maybe he was wrong.

“Are you a hero, Batman?” he asks.

“There are no heroes in Gotham,” the Bat says. With the ripple of his silken cape, Batman is gone, leaving Clark all alone on the cold empty roof where no one cares about Superman’s faith in humanity mutating.

Clark flies back to Metropolis.

He starts warning criminals to stay away from the City of a Million Tragedies.


	7. Chapter 7

Gotham is easy to leave but impossible to forget.

When Clark goes back to work, Lois Lane frowns at the very sight of him.

“What?” he asked, “Is there something on my face?”

“Are you okay?” she asked without answering. To raise even more questions, Jimmy Olsen just happened to pass by and backtracked immediately.

“Yo, who killed your dog, pissed in your coffee, and shitted on your mother’s porch?”

“What?” Now he was even more confused and both Lane and Olsen winced.

“I think you need to look at your face.” Thank god women are all secret agents with everything they could ever need on hand cause Lois fished out a hand mirror from her bag and handed it over quicker than he could turn around.

Clark looked at his face and realized in horror what was happening.

It was small, but startling. The Gothamite Sneer. A bit shaky, not very clear, and definitely not original seeing as how he merely suffered Gotham, was not a true born victim of the dank city.

Clark groaned in complaint before slumping in his desk and banging his head against the cheap wood.

“Cheer up, Smallville,” Lois said, “Everyone gets cheated on at least once in their life.”

“Or, you know, more than that,” Jimmy said, “But seriously, did something happen? Like some life or death situation happen? Something so serious Superman had to save you from it?”

“No,” he admitted, “I went to Gotham.”

They both started out of their seat.

“You? In Gotham? Who are you and what the hell did you do to Kansas?” Lois demanded.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Jimmy asked, “You're too young and beautiful to die!”

“I feel the love guys,” said Clark from underneath his misery, “But really, I think I'll get better from this.”

“Oh no you don't, you're not getting away that easily, “ Lane demanded, “Spill it Smallville, why the hell did you go to Gotham? Without a SWAT team? I knew you were sometimes reckless, I didn't know you had a death wish.”

“I was … following a lead. Whatever good that did me.”

“I hear a really juicy story about to be retold. Jimmy, get some popcorn.”

“Get your own damn popcorn, I'm not missing a single moment of this.”

“You both are heartless heathens and I love you,” Clark said, “So, you know about the glasgow grins showing up at-”

“You took on the Joker-Dilute story where even Perry said to drop it? You really do have a death wish. Wait till I tell on you to your Ma.”

“Amateur, use it for blackmail,” Jimmy piped in, pulling up a rolling chair.

“You are a genius dumbass. Continue Smallville.”

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted; I managed to find the main drug handler, guy by the name of Terry Goodwill, citizen of Metropolis. He ran with the wrong crowd, tried to play with the big boys in Gotham and ran back to the most forgiving land that is Metropolis, taking with him some of that Joker-Dilute stuff.”

“And by big boys you mean-”

“Something, or should I say  _ someone _ , scared Terry back into Gotham. I followed the lead and where does it take me? Out on the docks where I witness Terry’s brain matter splattering the floor.” Clark usually never talked like this but yesterday's events were too fresh in his mind to sugarcoat. “Joker was there.”

“Oh,” Lois gasped, “You mean the big, big boys. The actual villains.”

“The very same. Course, that was when-” Clark cut himself off and looked around for anyone listening in. There was no one who seemed too strange (except maybe for Chloe who looked ready to cry on her keyboard #relatable) so he continued in a whisper, “That was when Batman showed up.”

Both Lois and Jimmy gasped out loud.

“YOU SAW-” Jimmy announced and Clark quickly stuffed a few fingers down his throat to stop him from talking.

“Yes! Now shut up, I need to tell this story.”

“You saw the Bat and didn't take any photos?” Lois hissed, “What type of idiot are you?”

“An idiot who took photos and a whole bunch of them. They had Batman fighting Joker’s thugs and beating up Joker to a bloody pulp for information.”

“Okay, so where’s the photos? Why aren't you writing an article right now?”

“Those photos are now in a trash bin because Batman knew I was there, knew I took photos and one minute he was right in front of me and the next minute he's at my back breaking my camera.”

“Did you pee yourself? I would have peed myself that's scary as shit.”

“You keep saying Batman. You actually looked at him? What does he look like? Who is he?” asked Lois, always focused on what was really important.

“He’s,” Clark leaned back in him chair, thinking back to the moment last night with all his senses, “I don't know who he is. His face was covered. He was dressed in black military gear and fought like a ninja-”

“HA I KNEW IT!”

“He was dressed like a bat so the Batman monicar is really his.”

“That’s stupid. Why the hell does he dress up like a bat? What's a bat got to do with anything in Gotham? It's not hope inspiring, it's scary.”

It was like a puzzle piece slotting in place.

“Lois, you're a genius.”

“I know I am. But I can't figure out why-”

“He spoke to me last night.”

“ _ He spoke to you and you didn't have a record-  _ you know what? You are the worst journalist I've ever laid eyes on. I'm asking Perry to fire you as we speak.”

“He spoke to me and I asked him if he thought himself a hero,” Clark said breathlessly, “He said quote,  _ ‘There are no heroes in Gotham’ _ unquote.”

“That is the single most badass thing I ever heard in my life. I'm having that tattooed directly on my ass-”

“Shut up Jimmy, where are you going with this, Smallville?”

“He doesn't see himself as a hero. He’s dressed as a scare tactic. Which means the Bat wasn’t created for the general public but for the criminals he stalks after.” The burning fire to seek truth shone bright in Lois’ eyes.

“I am a genius,” she said.

“Did anything else happen last night?” Jimmy asked, “You know, like car chases, explosions, a prostitute you fell in love with but took all your money?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, “That I dressed up as Superman and went barreling into that warehouse with no plan and every single evil little cockroach laughed in my face?”

“Real funny Clark, but no really, any other details you managed not to squeeze in there?”

“Ummm,” Clark thought a bit before saying, “Did you know Batman took on a sidekick?”

“Sidekick? I thought it was agreed upon that Batman isn't a hero, vigilantes don't have side-”

“His name is Robin,” he said, “Or at least that's his alias. He’s … just a little boy.”

“A boy?” Lois questioned, “Talk to me Smallville, words are your friends. How old is he?”

“He can't be more than thirteen.”

Jimmy hissed and said, “Isn't there some law somewhere talking about underaged heroes?”

“What the hell? Batman can't do that! He’s taking an underaged boy to fight crime illegally in the worst city in America!”

“I told Batman he was endangering an innocent,” Clark said, “And I got yelled at by the kid.”

“What?” they both asked in union.

“It’s Gotham,” he tries to reason with them, “They have their own rules, their own standards.”

“They still have to follow Federal Law.”

“What are you gonna do, Lois? Gonna wait around on a Gotham rooftop with Child Services and see if the Bat drops by?”

“It's better than letting some creep in a bat mask to drag that little boy into criminal activity!”

“Lois,” Clark said exhausted of the topic, “Its Gotham. I don't think there are innocent little boys anymore.”

“Clark,” Lois said with concern dripping from her words, “What happened to you?”

Clark didn't even have to take a minute to come up with an answer.

“Gotham took a bite and spat me out. Said it didn’t like the taste of Kansas.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you mind if this interview was recorded?”

“No, by all means be comfortable,” said Bruce Wayne, a polite if empty smile gracing his high aristocratic face as he sat in a leather chair that probably costs more than Clark’s annual salary.

Clark went through the motions of turning on his rather cheap voice recorder, despite the fact that he naturally could remember this entire conversation word for word, just for a few seconds more to get his head together cause _-why him?_

_Why did it have to be him?_

“Before I begin, I do want to touch bases with you,” he said, smiling just as emptily at the billionaire, making sure to crinkle the corner of his eyes to sell ingenuity, “How are you? How’s your last week been?”

A disarming question, no one really expects to be asked about the last seven days of someone’s life. Clark found that it was the perfect opening to how the rest of the interview would flow depending on the reactions given. Wayne lent his head back, giving a pitch perfect laugh of a man pleasantly pleased. He said, “I would say I’ve been good. Fairly busy with the upcoming charity ball I’ll be hosting, but I still have enough time to attend my Pilates instruction and meet with charming journalists from Metropolis.”

Credible, but Clark had done his research beforehand, knew that Wayne enterprises just recently came under fire for corrupt business dealings and was under investigation by the GCPD. There were even a few rumors that he gave the benefit of the doubt about the man’s ward being accused of cheating national exams either through bribery or by using his new guardians funds to pay for higher scores. Regardless of whether these two issues were true or false was not why Clark Kent was here interviewing Wayne, but it did mean that either the billionaire was making light of the situation, disregarding it in the face of a stranger journalist, or deliberately hiding it.

He was proven once again how perfect an opening asking for the last seven days could be. Now he knew that Bruce Wayne wasn’t of a mind that would offer information mindlessly.

“You flatter me,” he said, keeping his smile placid so not to encourage Wayne to distract, “Metropolis finally came out of the dark ages of winter and I’ve been enjoying the local parks. Everyone’s been having the same idea, coming out to enjoy the sunshine and gradual warmth. What about you, Mr. Wayne, have you been enjoying this early spring?”

“Please, call me Bruce,” he said with a curious tilt to his head, impeccable combed black hair tamed into place, “Winter came on a bit harsher than in recent years, evidence of Global Warming or whatever these scientists are panicking about, so the cold isn’t as tempted to leave us just yet. The outdoors lends itself to be more wet and muddy than appreciated and the upcoming rains will make it worse.”

“Ah,” Clark noted out loud, “I’ve heard once that Gotham was built on top of a delta.”

“Swamp actually,” Wayne said and the reporter noticed how the skin around his eyes and mouth seemed to have relaxed minutely, the softness bringing out in the otherwise masculine features: long lashes, pale skin, a fuller bottom lip. “It used to be a delta, but it’s natural clay deposits and the iron and coal mining turned the already dying river into swamp lands.”

“One of the biggest ecosystems of swamp lands in America, ain’t it?”

“Right after the Florida Everglades,” Wayne agreed, a corner of his mouth twitching, “Is that a Midwestern accent I’m hearing?”

Clark couldn’t help the faint blush that tinted his cheeks, silently cursing how obvious his accent was to anyone who was listening. Evidently, Bruce Wayne was listening.

“Central American actually, my native state is Kansas.”

“The heart of America’s Heartland,” Wayne said, fully relaxing in his seat.

Clark wasn’t stupid. He purposely brought up the weather, drawing out Mr. Wayne’s innate familiarity of the city only a native would have, setting a tone for the whole interview. If the other man relaxed further upon discovery of his mild-mannerisms being sourced from a Mid-Western upbringing, then he was only disarming himself.

“So they say,” Clark agreed amiably, briefly glancing down at his notepad as if to read his scribbles, mentally starting the timer of this interview, “With this spring weather comes new opportunities, just last year you petitioned to the City Counsel for a Community Gardens project, where local parks in impoverished neighborhoods would have greenhouses set up to grow fresh fruits and vegetables. The petition also explained that you were willing to donate about two million dollars for this project. Would you be willing to talk more about this petition?”

Bruce Wayne was prepared for this. All interviews given and allowed by Bruce Wayne had to have it’s clean lines of conduct. Clark wasn’t so stupid or bold to jump at the billionaire’s throat when he wasn’t expecting it.

The man’s response was well practiced, a supposed recitation of a donation summary. A quote stamped with the approval of his enterprise and associates, nothing digging deeper than that. “It’s not as much of a radical idea as one would think. Local greenhouses could grow fresh produce that are usually unavailable to neighborhoods of low income or even food deserts. I got the idea from an article I’ve read in _The Daily Planet_ actually, written by Lois Lane I believe? Fascinating read.”

“Are you going to be assigning your own people to keep an eye on how your donation money is handled?” Clark asked, “Two million dollars is a lot of money to just give freely.”

“You would find, Mr. Kent,” at this, Wayne’s smile never faltered but his eyes were cutting sharp, “That there are genuine people within the Parks and Recreation bureau who do want to help this city thrive.”

“My mistake,” Clark said, raising his hands in surrender, “I was under the impression that the money would be handled by the City Counsel. I will have to admit that I haven’t yet done any research on the Parks and Recreation bureau but there’s been substantial evidence of money laundering and corrupt politicians within the recent years to make anyone want to double check the numbers.”

“I’m aware,” Bruce Wayne said, tone sharp, but his blue eyes seem unfocused on the reporter. Perhaps thinking about the City Counsel? It is particular that he would donate such large sums of money directly to a bureau of the state and not go through the local governments to garner much more media attention than what the petition was receiving. Clark was getting the impression that he might be the first reporter to follow this lead.

The other man was proving himself to be more than what people call him to be. Daft, careless, shallow, Clark might as well throw out all of Cat’s annotations in how she perceived Bruce Wayne to be because in ten minutes of them talking, Clark found the other man extremely self aware of how he was portraying himself. A mask perhaps? More and more he could see that beneath the placid personality was a difficult partner to interview. Intelligent and shrewd, quick on the pick up and just as fast to snip leading lines. The man was leaning on this facade of shallow naivety, catering to the idea of Bruce Wayne, the shining example of aristocratic ignorance.

But no rich person of ignorance would care about setting up greenhouses in the local parks, or specifically use the term “food deserts” to accurately describe the issue the other saw in his city. Lois Lane wasn’t even the first to coin the term “food deserts”, Clark remembered that specific article and she had only brought into focus the malnutrition in Metropolis suburban areas. It wasn’t even front page news. How that correlated into Bruce Wayne funding a gigantic city wide project that would no doubt be used as an example for other major cities in America was minimal.

“What are you hoping for this project to produce, other than the produce?”

Wayne gave a throaty laugh, “In terms of city moral?”

“No, that is a good question but I was more thinking if there was anything else you had planned in uplifting impoverished neighborhoods.”

“I beg pardon?”

Clark leaned back in his seat, resting his feet squarely on the floor and letting his hands clamp onto the chair in which he sat. The rough scratch of his wool jacket and the smooth leather only made him more nervous. The moment of truth.

“It’s no secret that Wayne Enterprise has had a philanthropist agenda. Your great-grandfather did iron ore mining before going into steam engineering, your grandfather was an architect that inspired a lot of Gotham’s signature Gothic style, your father-”

“If you can get to the point, I can read my family’s Wikipedia page by myself on my own time,” Wayne interrupted. Clark caught himself rambling, speaking out loud his research notes. Can his brain-to-mouth filter get any more useless?

“You and your family love this city,” Clark tried again, “Even an outsider like me can see that. Citizens of Gotham know it. But whereas your entire family history depicts great men and women standing up to fund and change Gotham for the better, I seen no reports or announcements that you had any plans to pick up a community project that would change the lives of the people. Well, until this Community Gardens petition to begin building greenhouses in areas where fresh produce is not just a scarcity as it is a luxury to obtain.

“So now my question for you: is this the philanthropist project you will define yourself and the Wayne family of your generation?”

For a moment, Bruce Wayne was silent.

For all of Superman’s powers, Clark Kent was not a mind reader. And though he could listen to the man’s heartbeat, probably guess at his general emotions from facial tics or even the rhythm of his breathing, he prided himself as a journalist that didn’t need supernatural help. He had done his research, found a niche of exposition that Perry would be more than pleased to print, had gone through grueling weeks of jumping through all the metaphorical hoops that come with interviewing a prolific billionaire like Bruce Wayne. Regardless of his general dislike for Gotham City, he was a professional and that meant aiming for blood.

“ _‘Simple Metropolis reporter from Kansas’_ indeed,” Bruce Wayne murmured. Suddenly, the man seemed to switch tactics, perhaps another persona perhaps the real man behind the mask, relaxing more into his chair, leaning his chin against his propped hand, eyes distinctively sharp and aware. “Might I ask where you got this line of questioning? You’re not here on behalf of Lex Luthor are you?”

“I’m not on Mr. Luthor’s payroll, no,” Clark said, a little offended and catching himself on a sharp tongue and even sharper glare. No need to actually roast the multi-billionaire alive with his heat vision.

“How about my company then? Have you been keeping notes on Wayne Enterprises for years? Are you the first of many who will line up with the same question: _What will you do with your money Mr. Wayne?_ ”

Clark didn’t let the jab strike true, instead finding this new person Bruce was portraying as fascinating. Is this who his business partners face when brokering a deal? Was this the true face of the Prince of Gotham, the diligent daytime guardian of the city?

“I’m not the first that’s ever asked that question,” Clark said, “Just the one who noticed _who_ you were helping.”

Obviously, that wasn’t what Wayne was expecting. The flat, placid smile that graced his handsome face since the very beginning fell ever so slightly, the vaguely hostile glare in his eyes eased though still flinty.

Clark didn’t know where this sudden sense of bravado came from. Maybe from the fact that Wayne was taking him seriously? Some Pavlovian effect where Superman was facing an enemy he needed to fight against? Wherever it came from, the reporter felt a strange rush of daring, to take risks and really prove himself to be a journalistic opponent worthy in facing Bruce Wayne himself.

He explained, “Who are these greenhouses benefiting most? Who else did you specifically mention when detailing the facts of your petition? It’s easy to name the builders, coordinators, and volunteers, but you specifically mentioned the neighborhoods that can’t get easy access to fresh produce. Those same neighborhoods are family residencies, parks are landmarks for children homes. Indirectly, you’re declaring your next focal point of Gotham City needs to be it’s lower income citizens.”

Clark chanced a glance into the eyes of Wayne, “Am I wrong?”

Superman was near infallible, had taken heavier hits than catching meteors, high speed trains, missiles, and laser beams. Yet he had never lost his breath as he did seeing a smile curl upon Bruce Wayne’s face.

_A Gothamite sneer, curling at the edges of his mouth, wide and unforgivably attractive on his face._

Clark Kent could imagine fangs and blood in that mouth, eyes glittering in sadistic pleasure. Never had he seen Bruce Wayne bare his teeth into a smile like that before; no pictures, no video, no evidence of Gotham’s Prince even having the thirst for blood except the two photos he had tucked away. He sat as still as possible, for fear that the other man would lunge for his throat. For all that he had expected, seeing the other man prove himself a monster wasn’t one of them.

“How _interesting_ ,” he said, suddenly not playing to any facade he had presented to Clark. No this was someone else, the true man behind the mask. “And what if I said that I don’t care about them, that setting up pretty greenhouses is some paltry act that’ll placate all these bleeding humanitarian hearts? What if you’re wrong about me and what you supposedly found?”

Even his voice was different; deeper yes, but the way his tongue lingered on the vowels, cutting sharp his 't's and rumbling 'n's that was so distinct that Clark almost gasped aloud. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, the prim and polished socialite, had a Gotham dialect. The tongue of her gutters, her alleys, her wastes. Whoever was sitting in front of him breathed the city air and bleed through her streets. Clark swallowed around a dry tongue and gave a careless shrug, “Then I write a different story. But I don’t think I’m wrong.”

“So now you’re asking rhetorical questions? Why are you interviewing me then, if you’re not writing whatever drivel you’re so desperate to write?”

_Who was the interviewer and interviewee?_ Clark wanted to unbutton his shirt but he felt pinned to his seat, the billionaire’s eyes an unbearable weight of consciousness.

“Because I want to know what you see in this city that is worth saving.”

Unwittingly the truth was ripped from him. _What the fuck?_ No, that’s not what he wanted to say, least of all to Bruce Wayne. God, can’t he ever shut his useless mouth in stressful situations?

At least it threw both him and the other off. Bruce looked less like he was thinking about filet mignon Clark and more contemplative.

It might have been his imagination but he could have sworn the man muttered, _“Save?”_ before rising from his seat. Unsure what the other was doing, the reporter remained seated as the billionaire circled around his chair to stand before the floor to ceiling windows, the entire view of Gotham City in display before its Prince. The sunshine casted shadow across the man’s broad shouldered back like a cape and though he had no crown, there was no way a man so distinctively cut as Bruce Wayne could ever be mistaken as anything but royalty.

“All of it,” he said, turning back to Clark, “All of it is worth saving.”

If he were any more dramatic he would have spread his arms as if to take on the weight of the world upon his shoulders. As it was, his eyes burned in feverish excitement and Clark was nothing more than an audience to his vision.

“Once the petition goes through, the greenhouses will go up, I can start securing measures for eliminating the school lunch program. Hundreds of thousands of children will be free to eat breakfast and lunch at their local schools, and with new availability to a Farmer’s Market, people of low income would have a chance to eat more wholesome and healthier meals. I’ve already made plans to raise the minimum wage of all employees of Wayne Enterprises, with less stress upon their paychecks to buy food, it’ll go more into the local economy and small businesses.”

The man was on a roll, envisioning his dream with such confidence that Clark couldn’t help but be caught up in whatever perfect world he was spinning. "The hundreds of thousands of Wayne Enterprise workers with more than enough to passably get by. I can strike a deal with Social Services, opening up more locally sourced jobs that gives more than fair pay and equal opportunity for all. Waiting for City Planning to cohesively start refurbishing the old buildings that have fallen past disrepair would be a battle neither I nor this city can wait. I will be starting a subset of companies under Wayne Enterprises that focus primarily on construction, fixing roads and rebuilding the historical landmarks that could rejuvenate Gotham's economy while servicing an entire workforce with more than a minimal wage.

"People _want_ to be better, Mister Kent, they either don't have the means or the means are too restrictive to reach. By my plans, more opportunity would be open, circumventing government involvement that dictates workers taxation, legal and illegal citizen status, and criminal records. Of course we have other issues to address such as the homeless population, drug rehabilitation, and mental health services, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Wayne...made it seem like Gotham was _manageable_ , was more than just a sickness, a beast hiding in the dark. His dreams for a better future for Gotham and her tenants were inspiring, and the casual confidence in the way he shared his passion related to an almost _naive_ belief that Gotham was more than just her shadows. Clark didn’t know what madness possessed him in that moment to open his _big stupid mouth_ to ask, “What about Batman?”

Bruce Wayne froze, so caught off guard by the line of questioning that even Clark was shocked. When the other man looked into his eyes, pinning the reporter with an invasive stare, he could do nothing but suppress the shiver down his spine.

“ _What?”_

“Batman,” he forced himself to say, bullshitting his subconscious reasoning, “Is an issue for Gotham city. Maybe not for you personally, but definitely for the GCPD. Is there anything you want to say about Gotham’s vigilante?”

It was a risky gamble to grab a quote that was completely off topic but he didn’t want to admit that he was so out of his depth to what Wayne was revealing that he was drowning in possibilities. Why would such an ambitious man lie down all his plans before a Metropolis investigative reporter, and not even _The Daily Planet_ ’s best one yet? Why would he reveal himself underneath the rich playboy’s mask to be a fearsome business tycoon?

“Batman,” Wayne said, his mouth curling around the name as if it was unfamiliar to him, despite the vigilante’s occupancy of the city, “Is not an issue.”

_Clark once lived on a farm. He knew the smell of bullshit._

“Are you saying Gotham's infamous vigilante is not an issue for you, or an issue as a whole? Because his unorthodox example of heroism is-”

The way he moved, Superman saw him coming but confined to his “nothing special” persona, he could do nothing but lean his head back as Bruce Wayne darted from behind his desk to tower in front of him. The other man leaned down, his bright blue eyes nearly glowing silver in manic energy. Again there was a Gotham sneer curling the edge of his lip but it wasn’t so nice anymore. The man looked ready to snarl like an animal.

“Batman. Is _not_ . For _you_ ,” Bruce spat between gritted teeth. An epiphany hit Clark then and he wanted to backpedal so hard that he’d find himself back in his shining Metropolis for protection from Gotham’s jaws.

“W-wait what?” he tried to break eye contact but Wayne grabbed his chin, turning his face until their eyes were locked in unbearable eye contact.

_He could break him._

Clark could get out of this. Use just the slightest bit of his strength, stand to his feet and demand the other not touch him, call the interview over, excuse himself, pack up his things and leave. He could cite some stupid rule of no contact between interviewer and interviewee. He could get away.

_But he didn’t want to._

Something… something in Bruce’s eyes made him want to witness this.

“ _‘Is Gotham a city worth saving’_ I think you mean,” Wayne said, recalling back to when this interview went off the rails, “And what would _you_ know? A man from Kansas, the big shining city of Metropolis, where your perfect hero doesn’t have to look your criminals in the eye and admit, _‘There are more victims than there are sinners. The law can’t save them all.’_ Where can your holy savior erect his temples here? On our graves? Our blood? Everyone dies here, there is no topsoil to grow goodness and mercy. You want to know what I think about Batman? _You really want to know?_ ”

Clark heard a sharp _‘click’_ that pierced through the silence of the room, he registered the sound as the recorder being turned off, but he didn’t have the mind to look away from Bruce Wayne’s eyes.

_The other man wasn’t insane._ He wasn’t driven mad by the city, wasn’t a raving lunatic. He was infected, yes, but never had Clark looked into the eyes of the diseased before.

_Bruce Wayne was a man._ A living being who wailed just as much in the city alleyways as it’s crazies, who stood strong on the same corners as it’s prostitutes, who begged for mercy beside the homeless. He remembered a little boy in a black and white photo. The shine of wet concrete contrasting to the dark shadows that danced along the alley walls. The boy had engaged the audience of the world, demanded them to look upon his tragedy, to be afraid, to _know_ what horror looked like, and Clark _failed_ to see.

“Batman was an eventuality,” Bruce whispered the secret, “Gotham is a city in rot, our dead laid unburied, God himself forsoke us and when the Devil offered his hand of course we take the only help we can. We bleed and wail and rage for vengeance so he goes and collects our dead. How else will we know that we are men if the devil doesn’t lead by example? How else can we see in the dark if not for a guiding shadow? What’s an outsider like you to understand? Who are you to ask?

_"Who are you?_ ”

Wayne released his face but Clark kept still, never breaking eye contact from Gotham’s Prince, finally seeing the man for who he was.

_It terrified him._

Because Bruce Wayne was just a man of flesh and blood. He was a Gothamite, of a population of people who were also of flesh and blood. Perhaps they had more reasons to cry, bleed, and suffer. Maybe the city turned them hard too fast.

_But that didn’t excuse Clark Kent from his hatred of the city, or his ignorance._

It… was humbling. He was flawed. Though everyone liked to believe Superman was a perfect immortal made flesh, Clark Kent was perfectly flawed just like anyone else. Realizing where he was flawed, where once he saw Gotham and her inhabitants as nothing more than a sickness that needs cleansing, and seeing reason enough to want to change for it.

Seeing Bruce Wayne sitting there in front of him, the sunlight having moved to alight upon his face, Clark was moved to change. If this man could see a city worth saving, then so too would he see it’s people, its thriving life worthy of more than just his apathy.

_Bruce was beautiful._

“I am… sorry for my conduct.” Clark was startled out of his self conscious inspection, finding the man before him rubbing his temple with a sigh, brows pinched and eyes closed as if self deprecating his own behavior. Wayne said, “It was hardly professional and not at all what you’ve come here for. I apologize for any distress I might have caused. I don’t know what came over me.”

He was gobsmacked. Was it wrong that he didn’t expect any grace? How surprising it was to be offered an olive branch when Bruce Wayne had so clearly acted for the sake of his Gotham pride? Before he could catch flies, he unglued a hand from his arm chair to wave away the tension saying, “No, no! It was rude of me to bring it up. I’m not working for a gossip tabloid waiting for it’s next soundbite, plus I forgot how Gotham can be.”

“How _can_ Gotham be?”

Both of them were clearly exhausted from whatever emotional high they went through, but one glance into Bruce’s blue eyes could clearly read how ready he could be to defend his city from bumbling idiot reporters.

“Protective,” Clark said, settling back into his seat, hoping his body language was enough to relax them both, “Territorial. It’s a distinctive cultural trait, a self defense mechanism from prying outsider opinions. Gothamites might be some of the most roguish characters, but you close ranks just as quick.”

Wayne’s expression turned to amused wonder before voicing, “It sounds like you've read an anthropological journal about Gotham. Tell me, Clark, where have you studied us to know?"

The reporter felt like a naughty child having been caught hoarding candy underneath his pillow. “Not an actual study, mind you, just… I read _The Gazette_. And I’ve been in the city a few times. They’ve been memorable experiences.”

Behind the desk, Wayne's expression turned _hungry._ As if he found something delightedly interesting and he was musing how best to hunt his quarry. Clark could _feel_ his skin flush, not used to being stared at so intensely in his more civilian form. Especially not by someone like _Bruce Wayne._

“And has this visit been an _experience_ for you?”

Clark knew that he was done for the day by the sudden _swoop_ of his stomach, hearing that distinct dialect roll off that tongue like savored bourbon.

_He wasn't so much of an idiot to feed the kindling of his attraction. Nothing holy would come out of it._

“More than. I will have to thank you for your time Mr. Wayne, but I do believe our interview time will have to come to a close.” Both reporter and billionaire stood from their seats, the former taking up his note bag and recorder, pocketing the useless items and shuffling like the awkward alien that he was.

In contrast, the other only buttoned the top button of his suit jacket, professionally outstretching his hand to him saying, “I was delighted to have this _conversation._ I do hope you come back for another interview soon. And please, call me Bruce, I think anyone who can appreciate Gotham for what she is can expect familiarity with me.”

There was something unsaid there, some secret underlying message that Clark for all his knowledge couldn’t guess.

“Bruce,” the reporter let his tongue roll over the name, disregarding how it sat like honeyed liquor on his tongue, warm and heavy. “Call me Clark.”

Within the week, the news broke about Wayne Enterprise cleaning house, investigations coming to a neat and orderly close. Clark’s article about Wayne’s Community Gardens petition was highly edited to not include any opinions the businessman had about Batman or even his future prospects.

It didn’t make front page news. No one seemed to have made note of how a reporter for _The Daily Planet_ managed to get Bruce Wayne to answer questions seriously. But it didn’t matter because while the article was shuffled into mediocrity, Clark had walked into the bullpen to find a present sitting at his desk.

A slice of a four tier devil's food cake, and even if it wasn’t his favorite, he found every bite sacrilegious.

There was a note left for him. A phone number, no name, and a message:

_See you soon._

Clark couldn’t deny that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe y'all.
> 
> give kudos. Send comments. subscribe. Pray for the author to me hit once again by a car of inspiration. might wrench another chapter out of me/

**Author's Note:**

> On Hiatus until Author gets struck by lightning of where the hell to go with this.
> 
> If you could be so kind as to give kudos and a comment to your poor, local author, it would be much appreciated


End file.
